I was born in Northern Transylvania’s Maramures, at the feet of majestic mountains, covered by ancient, noble forests, with their trees as brothers to us, and sisters. Strong beeches, venerable oaks, solitary pines, imbued with the crystalline waters of pure streams …

It’s the pines which fascinated my people for millennia, giving us our cradles, our tables, out beds, the pillars of our gold mines, and the coffins of our passing away.

Always alone but never lonely, with one purpose, to reach ever higher, leaving behind as time passes by, as the crown moves upwards, dry, broken branches, like thorns awaiting for the careless passer by…

You see, the life of pines is in their roots and in their evergreen tops, the painful reason why you can’t embrace a pine tree except maybe when it’s young, a child. As it grows older, the crown moves upwards, leaving the naked, dried broken branches around, hurting anyone coming too close…

There’s a secret though…

If one is clever enough, they might find looking upwards to the green crown, a path in the dry broken branches like a ladder, leading the brave to the top. There, there are no sharp branches, just velvety fresh green fragranced new branches, allowing to be embraced and loved… Pines love only those daring to come close enough and climb to find who they truly are. And in exchange, they give something only pines can give, because they always return the careful touch and the embrace. They bleed the most beautifully perfumed resin, coloured of amber, smelling of frankincense, and the stronger the touch, the longer the embrace of the brave who wants to love them, pines bleed more resin, binding them as lovers to themselves, forever…

And when our time has come, we remain standing, calling out in stormy nights the final touch of heavens, the kiss of one last lightning, burning like torches, illuminating the paths of wandering lovers…